


(a) time to kill

by s_t_c_s



Series: to everything there is a season [3]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: (accusations of?) peeping, (knee to stomach variety), Angst, Blood and Gore, But also, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fruit, Gossipy bitches, Gun Violence, Homicide, Idiots, Jealousy, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Oversized Clothing, POV Beth Boland, POV Rio (Good Girls), Poor Communication (S)kills, Revenge, Rio is obsessed with the sound of his own name, Sexual Fantasy, Sharing a Bed, Trauma, angsty dreams, both beth and rio sound like they've got giant honking crushes on mick (which is extremely valid), clean(ing) talk, envelope mentions, fairly slapstick blood and gore...but still, half a thought about contraception surprisingly, hurt/comfort (if hurting someone and then comforting oneself about it counts?), idiots who think they might be developing superpowers, life angst...death angst, mention of past recreational drug use, mentions of past Beth/Dean but entirely in terms of dean being TRASH, mick mickying about, minimal footstuff, poop mentions, technically bedroom Spanish, though not a condom in sight, two idiots with oral fixations, vague enemies with benefits vibe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_t_c_s/pseuds/s_t_c_s
Summary: set after: a time to every purpose (under heaven), and within a faiiiirly nebulous season 3.if you wanna make the universe laugh, tell it about your plans, aka (rotten) chickens going to roost.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio, Rio (Good Girls)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: to everything there is a season [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703800
Comments: 51
Kudos: 319





	(a) time to kill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ms_scarlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_scarlet/gifts).



> This is the third (and final) part of a series. I would recommend reading the first two parts first if you like things to make sense but, hey, it's your life.
> 
> Ft. discussion of and appearances by homicide, gun violence, blood, angst, trauma, substance ab/use as a coping mechanism, unprotected sex, voyeurism, revenge fantasies, edging, teasing etc. (aka it's a fun romp.) There's a few mentions of slaps and quite a lot of actual poking and shoving. There's also some yelling about poop, and varied bodily fluids. Some Rio/OFC stuff, and some past Beth/Dean mentions (and a teeny tiny past Rio/Rhea mention). At one point Beth kind of gets offended when she sort of wilfully misinterprets something Rio said as him slut-shaming her, but mostly bc she's only a baby slut and is feeling sensitive about that fact.
> 
> I don't think any of the above is particularly graphic but if any of that is a hard no for you then I don't think you want to read this.
> 
> also ft. explicit sexual content. they're gross. you've been warned.
> 
> and! there are a couple of unmarked POV switches so watch out!!!

It happens amid a blur of almost pure, concentrated instinct.

Hardly Rio’s first taste of the stuff.

Cos the thing about control, _truly_ owning it, is understanding when to let the lessons learnt, those wisdoms swallowed deep inside gut, wrest charge.

That truth is threaded through the burn to his lungs as he sucks down air. In the awareness of them hefty heaves of hers trembling roughly round the region below his left ear too. Reflects through that sweat-slicked attempted slide of their skin – his grasp on her still staying strong, somehow.

What’s fizzing against the interior of his abdomen isn’t panic. Nah, closer to blistering certitude.

That his fingers become twined with Elizabeth’s, as their feet pound them off, it’s not a problem.

He’s touched her plenty, christ.

Does it to provoke often, still. Put no stop to _that_. Well. Not for long. Had both hands about her waist good and lengthy, just the other day. Delights on tapping and tugging and tormenting.

But this is. Different, kinda. Wasn’t launched with – that – purpose.

Elizabeth was… Well, pretty fucking out of it probably doesn’t do the situation justice. He grabbed on to her, and she’s let herself be dragged along. Plenty willing, far as appearances stretch. Kept an impressive enough pace.

He slows (and so she does too) for a relieved moment, once they shove out the wide warehouse exit – eyes finding his car easy. Only that reprieve don’t last, given the tyres are slashed to all shit.

Rio does ask where her van’s at but Elizabeth, still lost-eyed, doesn’t seem to so much as understand the question.

He’s trying very hard not to yell. Not just cos her headspace seems a step beyond fragile, unlikely to handle it well. It surely can’t be a smart idea to do _anything_ that’d attract attention right now.

Suddenly he clocks movement encroaching at the edge of his visual periphery.

Rio shoves her, soft, against the dulled brick. Shushes her, after a clear instruction to stay put. Admittedly she’s not actively engaged in forming sounds right now, but she’s forever _loud_. Clomps about, unsubtle as cilantro. A font of eternal unpredictability too, which ain't a tendency he can currently accommodate.

Besides, she looks a fucking state. Even if the guy up ahead, bellowing into his cell about whatever as he treads side-to-side, isn’t involved, the sight of her’d likely have him raising all alarm.

If he is part of it, and the natural conclusion would be as some type lookout, man’s doing a poor job of attending to the surroundings.

Prime example: he doesn’t notice Rio veering behind him.

A single well-placed smack to the skull with one of the many guns now littering his person is enough to send the dumbass down – and _hard_. Rio disconnects the guy’s call; slams the phone off. Flexes fingers under thin gloves.

It all might buy ‘em some time, who fucking knows. He’s quick to filch the keys from the hand that was twirling the set previous.

When he turns to gesture to Elizabeth, it transpires that’s pointless. She’s hovering right behind him, his ghost-pallid shadow. Jesus, he’s gotta watch out. She’s disobedient at the best of times, and today is – well. Other than that.

Before he can expel a word, she’s running round, hauling herself into the passenger seat of the unconscious genius’ car. Which apparently ain’t even locked. Elizabeth acting for all the world like this is normal. Shit, maybe it is to her. Could be she and her lady goons have pulled so many heists, the getaway is genuine second nature. Or perhaps it’s the adrenaline. Shock.

He starts up the engine and just – drives. Tries to keep a close eye out for any tail but it’s hard to be sure when you dunno quite what to watch for. What happened neither. Everything’s – confused.

So he turns to ask her what the fuck just, like, in general, but Elizabeth’s slumped _all_ the way forward. Body straining against the belt. Head diving down.

He can’t glimpse too much of the situation beneath the shield of her hair, but a portion of that’s clumped aside, and he can glean enough to comprehend. Shit, if she starts puking, he really might just give up on this fuck of a day. Swerve into incoming traffic or whatever. Put ‘em both out their misery.

The fingers of his right hand twitch, come off the wheel a sec. He’s urging to push her back into place at least. But – she might as well have warnings scrawled across her shell at present.

After a moment of indecisive observation, he wrenches his full focus back to the road.

Simply says, “Hey.”

She doesn’t respond. The fact presents little deterrent.

“What you got in that purse of yours?”

It requires a few goes; he’s gotta throw in a couple utterances of her name too. She does eventually reply though, voice croaking.

He’s gotta prompt again, given she trails off after wallet, pen and planner. The giant thing is clearly housing legions greater than three measly items, so.

Rio’s only half-listening to her ramble on about about keys and snacks and cards and pillboxes and reading glasses and moisturiser and whatnot – ears vaguely pricked for possible tone-fortification. Hope she’ll fumble her way to the memory of sanitiser or some shit similar ignites. Elizabeth’s a serious mess of a sight.

What happened back there was. Weird. In numerous ways.

See, his day had, largely, been swimming along decent. Except for how Elizabeth was pestering him all morning ‘bout something or other. He genuinely hadn’t had time to engage, let alone deal with it. And, honestly, Rio’s beyond bored – wending wary too – of playing the willing to entertain part.

So he simply dropped a pin, said nothing else. Was mildly surprised when Elizabeth strode on into the warehouse, her jaw cocked and attitude oozing. But all he had to do was tip his head her way for Mick to move into blessed action and lead her back the way she came. To deposit her in that dank office. The idea of Elizabeth being shoved to a dusty chair and told to wait was so pleasing, Rio had to battle the grin threatening to swallow him intact, given he still had the business with Adz to wrap up.

Even now the recollection of Mick sauntering back, nodding all chill with that _perfect_ face on, remains amusing enough to cause a small lip-twitch. God, he seriously fucking _loves_ that guy. The sailing with Mick is always plain; Rio’s shit instantly _understood._ Without even a solitary word needing passing. The pair of them worked in perfect tandem once everything erupted into chaos, course. That interruption came outta serious nowhere – suddenly it was all shots, smoke, sounds. The fact that Adz went down straight away is – annoying. That deal’s _definitely_ off, hell. But there’s more pressing conundrums.

Rio knows he clipped one of ‘em, whoever they were. Then another. Mick got someone down too, though it wasn’t easy to catch much more detail than that. The press seemed to retreat at a point, and then there was a single shot, plain. From the _other_ direction. As he was looking to Micky, it came _again_ , same location or thereabout. Their eyebrow-to-eyebrow exchange was rapid. So, Rio took off down there. To the _exit_. He didn’t peek back once, but he _knows_ Mick and the boys headed the opposite, louder, way. Cleared, checked, held.

There was a guy laid out on the barren office carpet when Rio strode up – one whimpering and bleeding. And some trophy-resembling thing that might’ve been a novelty paperweight (ugly as it was nonsensical), partially caved and fresh scarlet-rimmed, dropped nearby. Whoever he was sported a hole through palm, as well as a wound to leg – the two might’ve even been off the same bullet. Elizabeth was posted above the lummox, stance decent as she kept the pistol trained, looking fairly uncomfortable. Though the thing radiating from her in the grandest proportion definitely had to be irritation. Rio kinda stood down at the sight, barrel tipping floorward, more amused than anything.

Pulling at _those_ puzzle pieces wasn’t particularly challenging at least. It’s the rest he’s having trouble with… She snapped a question, upon noticing his interruption, he’s sure of that. Was guarded, defensive. Acting kinda shady in general. That’s hardly an uncharacteristic posture for her though, he reminds himself. An undetailed explanation did eke out, eventually. ‘Bout the guy saying some things she found – offensive.

Rio clocks his eyebrow raising in the rear-view mirror, same as it mighta done right then.

A capably churlish statement fell out her mouth, straight to the target. That's when she tilted her attention back below. Kicked the bad leg slightly. The guy screeched some uninspired threat-insult pairing for her. Rio can still see those fat fingers inching for the ugly trophy-shaped thing. Pieces magnetised to stains from the same blood as filled their veins.

It’d been enough entertainment, he decided. Enough anything. So he shot the twit. Properly. And he’s got exactly zero regret for it.

Elizabeth startled, broad and conductive. Outrage blinked, while the rest of her stalled. She hissed some accusatory question his way, as one hand curled in on itself, digging at her body. Apparently she couldn’t read his total lack of response to her waffle. Carried it on, claimed she’d been _dealing with it_.

His eyes _still_ wanna roll. Her approach to problem-solving heavily features attempting to ignore issues out of existence. Though she doesn’t pull that shit with her back against the wall, does she. His thumb taps a steady beat against the blinker switch as he glares at the slowpoke ahead.

He’d turned from her before she could drag him into anything, anyway. Began pawing through the guy’s pockets, rolling up clothing. Searching for – well, whatever really. Weapons. Maybe ID. Any stuff that might pivot the day from the pinnacle of uselessness. Though there didn’t seem to be even one establishing piece. No tattoos. Not a wallet in sight. None of it seemed – particularly familiar. It’s like there’s an itch in some lobe or other of his brain. Rio can’t fetch it the satisfaction it demands.

But of course she persisted, demanded to know what was happening. And it’s not like he fucking understood, a point that shrugged out as he bopped back up. Elizabeth basically screamed at him, wanting the director's commentary on his thought process, like he owed her explanations for his actions. Like he owed her anything. And, _jesus_. Surely it was obvious that was a situation to leave behind, swift? Seriously, it was ridiculous in the moment but it strikes as even more ludicrous with a modicum of distance. What was her big sparkling idea huh – grab a hostage to interrogate on the way, like they were in some old time spy movie? Fuck _that_ , more trouble than it’s worth. Specially when past time to get gone.

‘Sides, he can trust Mick to be on top of exactly that part. Whereas Rio – well. He has to assume he was the target of – whatever it was. Working it out ain’t gonna take long. Once he has a minute to think. The list of people who might come at him has to be short, being as it’ll be composed of solely those with a chance to pull it off. Well, plus this absolute fucking madwoman. And, on that, he’s not necessarily assuming actual involvement, but her turning up right as shit kicked off does seem more than a bit random, right?

He squints at her. She’s stopped listing. But her lips are tapping against each other, like she’s lining a notion into shape. He decides to give her a second. She ain’t the fleetest thinker.

Case in fucking point, what happened next: the pause to her huffing as she suddenly asked after Mick’s whereabouts. Those eyes darting as if she’d only just noticed that danger might, like, exist. Shit, she never makes the _least_ bit of sense.

His vision tries to splash for her but – _focus on the_ _road_ , jesus.

Yeah, presumably at that point, she’d been very recently surprised by some random dude, smashed at him then held him at gunpoint. But it was the lack of Mick which formed her sticking point. Fucking lunatic. He _knows_ he was honestly about to just walk off outta there, certain it was no time for conversation. Tell her to trot along with, or fuck off. Either way. But then she raised the gun in her hands, the one she musta grabbed off that guy who was now cluttering ground.

And what he _shoulda_ known to do was debate questions later. Cos the bitch who shot him and left him for dead with _her_ sorta nemesis (who Rio’d simply been trying to clear off the board for – well. Okay, not _for_ her, but it’s not like she wouldn’t’ve reaped the benefits too) had a weapon pointed his way. Again.

But she wasn’t looking at him – more to a point over his shoulder. And she’d turned _stiff_. Not the incapable kind, but… Scared, unquestionable. She doesn’t quite go that way round him, not any more. Hadn’t even in their beginning – or if she did, it lasted barely a third of a second. Oh, there’d been a fairly pleasing period when he’d freshly returned from the grave, where Elizabeth was all trembles. But that got sped past irritatingly fast.

And – and of course there’d been _that_ night too.

It almost felt like an overlay of it, in the moment. Cos – yeah, he’d known she was freaked at the time. Rio’d wanted her off-kilter, after all. Not _petrified_. Merely enough to get her to do as told, without barking too many insufferable questions. And – just. _She’_ _d_ been the one forever playful with it, any rate. Giving him her own name as the rotten egg (and, jesus, what fucking prescience). Throwing keys in his face, then turning him in to the damn feds. Lingering for a fuck, more than once. Jumping out, then running back in again. And again. And again. None of that exactly screamed risk of– Look, he had no reason to think that she’d–

He does not dwell on it, stays from poking at that psychic scab.

Oh, he thinks about what happened that night with Turner plenty – the facts of what Elizabeth did lie heavy in his reckonings. But not the moment-to-moment _mechanics_ , probed full of visceral memories which threaten to absorb if offered an opportunity. So it just struck especially hard, during that snarl in the office – that’s all. The concession of her terror, that other incident.

The more important point is that he kinda can’t believe he left his back exposed to the entrance that way. It’s dumb rookie shit. Not only is he apparently incapable of learning a lesson when it comes to Elizabeth, she’s actively stripping him of basic sense now too. Well, there wasn’t much of a way to know what was hovering at his rear, nor an idea of what they’d gleaned. Whether they realised he had a weapon out even. So he started shoving it up his sleeve, subtle. Readied to rotate. An unpleasant baritone sounded behind him, grating off his hackles. Instructing her to put the gun down with some saccharine bull. It’s _wild_ to think that anyone could think that shit would work with her. Not catch the storm behind her eyes, soldered into her frame. After a pause, the guy began going a second round of it, still too sibilant.

About halfway through that sentence, Elizabeth fired off two shots in rapid succession, with fuckall warning – bullets sailing past Rio as his eyes darted. He rounded fast, ready to clean up her assumedly shoddy work. But the fucker was slumped against the hall wall. She’d got him square in the chest with both. Maybe he’d smashed his head, anyhow wasn’t conscious.

So Rio focused on grabbing the gun from the guy – safety wasn’t even off. And, well, he knew the price for underestimating her. Almost felt a lick of sympathy for the idiot. He shoved it into a pocket. Might've muttered something out loud about her improved aim. Wonders, again, if she’s been practising. And for what. Muscle memory was sure screeching _go time, go time, go time, go_ but curiosity got the better of him. His fingers idled over that one too. Cos it was strange, right. Nothing recognisable, identifiable. Arms for hire, maybe but. _Why_. And then he heard a series of yelps and bangs from behind him.

Rio turned with a weary sigh, certain he was unprepared for whatever fresh hell had assembled at his back next. Honestly, it’s impressive he’s not succumbed to motion sickness at any point, basically spent his entire afternoon whipping round. Elizabeth musta started coming toward him and tripped, or some shit. She’d landed smack on top of the body by her. Squeals plump with panicked disgust commenced. He could already see where blood was seeping into contact. And really – who wears pastels for a spot of afternoon crime?

She attempted to push off, he glimpsed blood gelling toward and along her cleavage. His own weapon got tucked away. Gingerly, he placed a hand in her outstretched one, managed to yank her up by pulling at one hip too. Rio tried to tuck the majority of himself out from junction with her, given she was _filthy_ red. Peeping down proves what a good job he did of _that_. Timorous finger-prints cross the lighter blue placket of his shirt, mar him.

She was blank. Glazed. But there was a commotion audible. And it seemed to be getting closer and there couldn’t be time to waste. He ripped the gun from her tight grasp. Housed that in his jacket. Grabbed on to her and just – _went_. And. Yeah.

_Fuck_.

“Wipes,” Elizabeth remembers.

He has to prompt her to want to use ‘em though, apparently she can’t make that massive leap of logic alone.

She’s okay at cleaning herself up, he supposes, but it’s a jerky, mechanical effort. And she simply balls up the bloodied ones, throws them at her feet. Which – hmm. Well this is definitely shaping up to be an abject _situation_.

What he can see probably ain’t even the damn half of it. So he fumbles around for his phone – keeps finding guns instead, this shit is fully ridiculous. Once he’s got it, he shoves the thing to his ear, hits Mick via speed dial.

Man answers on the second ring, ever dependable.

“Shit goes south sometimes,” Rio hits a note between airy and pissed.

“Yeah, so I hear.” Mick sounds tired, though not beyond the reach of amusement.

“You good?”

“Yup.”

“We’re heading out,” Rio says, neutral.

“Okay.” Mick doesn’t ask about that ‘we’, gives no pause either. It’s – maybe a little irritating.

“Know where I’m headed?”

“Yep.”

“Aight. I’ll sort the phones. Later.”

“Later.”

Suave fink didn’t even baulk at the plural. Well, whatever. One problem at a go.

“Elizabeth,” he says.

Of course it’s too much to hope for a response.

Rio tries again, eyes trained steady on the merging motorcycle. Gets a burly bowl of nothing for his troubles.

Diverts to a more direct route: “Gimme your phone.”

“I killed you,” she breathes.

And then she – well. Laughs, he supposes. But it’s brittle, bitter too. And _annoying_.

He’s got enough fucking problems right now, without having to deal with her having some full-on breakdown. Specially one ‘bout something blatantly inaccurate.

He turns to her, while they’re stopped at a light.

Says, trying to hold his face together without recourse to his hands, “No, you didn’t. Remember? You’re a shitty shot.”

Or. Well. She _was_.

Fuck all is what he gets back to it.

The light changes; he pushes on. “Dunno what’s up, someone could be tracking us. Gotta ditch ‘em. _Gimme_.”

“I need my phone!”

He sighs. His left hand comes up, pinches at eyebrow.

“I’ll leave ‘em for Mick. You’ll get it back.” Probably, anyway.

“Mick?” she echoes, disunderstanding. Practicalities seemed to ground but–

“Mick,” she repeats, a bit firmer. He hears shuffling, like she’s swinging toward him. “I didn’t kill you?” She doesn’t sound terribly certain.

“Uh huh,” he says, sorta encouraging. “Phone.”

“Did I – that guy?”

Rio shrugs. Cos – probably, yeah. But what’s it matter?

“ _Phone_.”

“Where are we going?” she says. Suddenly sounding a little more – her.

“Fucking christ,” he snaps. “Hand it over, I’ll tell you.”

She finally coughs it up, next light they’re paused at. Her little hand’s trembling so much; she’s still chalk-pale. He didn’t know there was a whiter than her usual to go. And her face is just– The car behind them honks, and. Right.

Somehow he gets both cell phones off. Only to realise this isn’t his fucking car, and therefore ain’t stuffed with envelopes and just. He’s had enough of this shitshow of a day.

He pulls in by _that_ convenience store. Tries to make sure he’s as cleaned as can be. While he reckons he’s done a decent job, this shirt’s done for. The jacket’ll barely button shut over the marks, what with guns bulging out his pockets. And what’s he gonna do – leave ‘em here with her instead? Hardly.

Rio strains to cast an eye properly over the backseat. Triumphantly snags the hoodie. It’s obviously far too big.

When he clicks off the seatbelt, Elizabeth starts acting like she’s getting out with him. And just – he’s cursed. That’s the only reasonable explanation. _Seriously_.

So he hisses that she has to stay in the _stolen vehicle_ , cos she’s _covered in blood_ , and it’s not a brilliant idea to _draw fucking attention to themselves_.

“Just steal another car,” she says, real haughty.

Which doesn’t make any motherfucking sense. Unless he’s meant to dump her in it to fend for herself, while she agrees to never, ever pester him again. That sounds – swell.

“This isn’t,” his eyes squeeze shut. “This isn’t fuckin’ GTA.” It comes out flattened.

Honestly, it’s like talking to an adolescent boy.

She snorts. “Stealing a car really isn’t hard,” sasses out her, like she’s imparting some great wisdom. “You just take the keys.”

“Thanks, Einstein,” Rio mutters.

A thorny tangle of murmurs fracture from her throat, he thinks he catches something about a Tesla or an iPad maybe, but it doesn’t flow toward sense.

He looks over at her. Elizabeth’s mouth folds up, like she’s done.

As he reaches for the door, she pings upward from her slouch. Starts, “Look,” in some hard, demanding tone.

And, god, he is so tempted to rout her from the vehicle, demand she get lost, never darken his towers again. Even dazed as she is.

But she backtracks slightly, sudden. “ _Fine_. I will stay in the car. But I swear, if you lock me in here I will smash my way out. With my bare hands if I must.”

She’s glowering something fierce. He’s pretty sure there’s the implication of serious bodily harm sent his way in the midst. And – shit. There are times he forgets, distracted by the soft trimmings, how Elizabeth’s basically all spine. Fuck, practically possesses an exoskeleton.

So he does leave it unlocked, against all sane judgement. Shrugs up the hood. Tries to walk like he thinks it’s the nineties and it’s normal to be wearing something you could fit at least eight people in. The blots she made are well covered, his face shadowed too.

Along with the necessary padded envelope and marker, he grabs snacks, drinks, a small flashlight too. Rio doesn’t _think_ there’s cameras that actually work here, but just in case, he fumbles the phones into the envelope careful and close. Writes ‘YOU KNOW WHO’ in his usual, clear hand. Smiles pretty when asking the girl to make sure it’s left under the counter for _no one_ other than San.

When he makes it back to the car, Elizabeth’s pretty much stayed in place. It’s kinda relieving. Well, cos at least he ain’t gonna have to chase after her, or sort through any weird destructive BS. She’s cracked her window slightly, but also slumped down further, outta view. So, fine.

He clambers back in. Accelerates. Soon scrabbles in the bag – extracts one of the bottles of water and swigs, heavy. Jostles her the other; tells her to take it slow.

Once he finds the banana, Rio chucks it neatly to her lap.

“Ew,” she says. “Gross.”

So he snags it back – fine, whatever. Passes her an orange instead. Which she _also_ starts bitching about.

“Who fucking hates fruit?” he groans, fingers pressing against eye socket.

“Well did you get any berries?”

He glances over at her, jaw grating.

Elizabeth gestures expectantly, like that’s not answer enough.

“ _Nah_.”

She’s real moody over it and all. Does slow, shoddy work of peeling the orange – just lets that mess drop wherever too. Which is – disgusting. He’s sure she’s not such a slob in her own spaces.

She pulls sour faces for each quadrant. Full on fake-retches at the supposed smell when he starts eating the banana as well.

“Do you ever stop complaining?” he mutters.

Then he has a real bright idea. Passes over the miniature bottle of whiskey.

“Take it slow, yeah,” he warns.

She drains it in one. Fuck sake.

*

“Where are we _going_?” Elizabeth pipes up, sudden.

And – oh yeah. He did promise her an answer. Well, maybe if she wasn’t constantly whinging ‘bout his choice in snacks or whatever, he’d have space to.

“Somewhere to lay low for a bit.”

“Oh,” she says, with a sage nod. “A safe house.”

Rio scoffs. “No. Do you do anything but watch shitty movies?”

“I raise _children_ ,” she says instantly.

Great – he absofuckinglutely walked himself into that one. Of course she has no godrotting clue what a rhetorical question is.

“I do several crimes,” she tells him too. All prim, like she’s performing her résumé for a panel of interviewers.

His mandible works, but he doesn’t retort.

At least they’ve wormed their way out the goddamn city. There’s basically no traffic to contend with here, doesn’t feel like there’s much in the way of prying eyes out from the bustle. It don’t seem like they’ve been followed, but – still. Better to be cautious than caught. Far, _far_ better.

Upon spying a decent spot, he pulls for it. Tells her to hop off out.

She gets all high and mighty ‘bout him abandoning her in the middle of nowhere, which is – fucking hilarious. If also a wistful dream.

“I’m gonna hide the car,” Rio tells her, through teeth practically bolted together as he demonstrates the world’s least sincere smile. “And I know how much you hate helping, so why don’t you chill here a minute, yeah?”

Elizabeth sniffs like she’s certain he’s lying. But does as told, after a momentary hesitation. God, he could use the break. Room to _breathe_.

Once he’s parked up in the copse, he combs through for anything useful – but there ain’t much beyond batteries. He extracts her trash, bags it. Tries to wipe things down best he can.

Then moves to concealing the car with brush and whatnot. It’s unlikely to hide it past a serious search. Rio has no idea if anyone will follow, or could track the car – whether that guy was involved at all, even. Something’s dinging at the back of his mind, a certain familiarity. Not his face, maybe just the man’s _type_? But he can’t place it.

Covering up is pleasing, distracting work. Possibly he's at it overlong than strict necessity dictates. But it’s – aiding. Not needing to look at or worry over Elizabeth for moments strung together.

If she’s run off into the trees screaming before he makes it back, one less load off his mind. Right.

Shit with them’s been – okay, of late. Or he has, anyway.

True, he messed up a little after _that_ night. The one with her bizarre seduction attempt. Just cos circumstances had descended, so he hadn’t managed to go on out. Pick someone up, like was supposed to. But he still got to revel in his spanking new reality. And he course-corrected the very next evening. Kept it up the couple after too, which has to count extra. And, yeah, he didn’t actually take any of ‘em home in the end, but that was just _sense_.

First was that glitzy woman – she had told him her name, but he clearly ain’t held to it – in the bar. So eager, _he’d_ been the one directing her to the bathroom. Rio’d noticed the ring on her finger too late, once he already had her hiked atop the sink, but – _fuck it, whatever_ had been the name of the game. He'd been catching glimpses of his own reflection, along with bits of the back of her head, so he gathered her close. To have something else to look at. She’d moaned so large for him then.

After, she’d intimated she wanted to do that again some time. When he only grunted, didn’t provide a number like she obviously expected, she turned kinda sour.

The following night, it was the backseat of his car. That one was younger. Real bendy too.

Third night, it moved to the front. The seat she'd been next to but never in, _his_. Exorcising an idle, if entrenched, imagine. And then he drifted to not caring on the location so much any more. The fantasy sorta – spent.

And. Well, it hadn’t been quite _enough_. Sure the tangibility of his win was fun as fuck to start with. But he wanted Elizabeth to _really_ hurt. Wake sweaty and disoriented and bleeding through time, how he did. Suffused with betrayal again and again, lifted out of whenever and wherever, transplanted to a terrible moment.

Which meant he needed her to slip _again_. Fuck it all up. Let him snake toward another chance. That way he’d kept mucking his shit; handing her free passes. So he could watch the pain of the realisation she ain’t learnt her fucking lesson winnow. To laugh on _that_.

Hell, he’d figured, maybe he could find out how fucking gormless he must look from it. Use her for a reflection. Stop repeating his messings as a result.

And it remains fun to poke and prod at Elizabeth, of course. The other night, when he’d gripped her middle two-handed, during a conversation about ink-suppliers, there’d been a split second where she looked like she thought he was about to _kiss_ her.

That turned to her appearing awful close to slapping him. He’d had a sinking sensation he didn’t wanna know how he’d respond to that. That he might _let_ her. To be able to dare her to try it again.

So Rio’d raised one hand, tugged _hard_ at her earlobe. She’d swallowed her violent tendencies inward, told him to fuck off. Not in so many words, mind, but it was hella clear. And last week or whenever, where he’d used his grip on Elizabeth’s hair to tickle at that spot beneath her ear – it’d been deeply amusing how much it pissed her off.

She hadn’t looked like she got the joke.

Eventually, he heads on back. The sun’s approaching its set. Lurid pinks and blues puff the sky – pleasantly reflect off a nearby pond. Elizabeth’s slumped on the ground, treacherous elbows tipped to knees. She looks so _small_ , folded up like that.

Once again he’s gotta help her up.

He starts walking, so she does too. In fact, she pushes in front of him. Keen to prove – something. He discovers her butt’s soaked in mud, there’s foliage sticking all over.

Rio shakes his head. Fuck _sake_.

Her trying to lead the way is patently ridiculous. She’s got no clue where they’re going. And all right, yeah, they kicked off following the road, still a few miles off, cos it pays to be cautious. But once he hears an engine, he decides it’s clearly time to cut through the trees. It’s quicker anyway, kinda.

He’s glad of the flashlight. Elizabeth keeps up fairly well, though he’s not exactly aiming for breakneck. She stays close. Clomps about in what she probably thinks are sensible boots. It seems she’s in a better state while she’s focused, breaths steady as she strides. But maybe it just feels that way to him cos she ain’t talking.

One point, she yanks on his arm without warning. Thrusts her purse into his hands, before wandering off.

Bafflement forms a speech-path round his tongue, till he understands what she’s ducking behind a bush for. He spins back around. Fiddles with a zipper on the side of the purse; encounters a packet of gum. Recalls her mentioning it earlier in the litany he struggled to extract from her.

He robs it, sticks it into his jeans, smirking. Fair tax, if she’s gonna use him as a coat rack, right?

Temporarily, he considers stuffing his accidentally collected arsenal in her bag too. Making her carry the bulking weight. But then – that can’t be a smart idea.

They pop out the trail by the farm, and then it ain’t far to the place. Mick and him have a long-standing argument about which route is better. Cos you can go on up to the bluff, wiggle round from there instead. Micky swears it shaves, like, a minute or so off, but the man’s clearly delusional. And anyway – who wants to be doubling back on themself. That shit’s just illogical.

“This is your safe house?” Elizabeth asks, fractious and judgemental, once they’re out front.

He inhales sharp through his nose. “Not a safe house.”

Thankfuckfully, the fob’s tucked away in his wallet, not stuffed into his car like basically everything else useful.

He supposes she’s not being utterly, utterly ludicrous. From the outside it does still look an old farm building. But, c’mon. If anyone should know about deceiving appearances – surely, right.

Once through the main door, it’s visibly clear there’s been a conversion. She presents a lil less sanctimonious as they climb the stairs.

He pulls at glove to press his thumb to the scanner. Unzips the hoodie to dig around his jacket's sleeve pockets for the key to the apartment.

As he enters, Elizabeth tries to follow him in. Without as much as toeing off her horrid footwear.

“Whoa,” he says. “Hold up. And don’t touch nothing.”

When he returns shortly with the trash bag, he instructs her to undress too. Peels rid of the hoodie-cum-tent, and his messed up shirt, holding tight to the jacket. Throws socks and shoes in too.

He looks; she’s stock still. Fingers digging at her hips.

He sweeps a hand at her general direction. “You’re covered in shit.”

Elizabeth blinks, aggrieved.

“Probably soaked in evidence. Should burn it all.”

Great, now she’s glaring. If she’s part of some DNA-disbelieving cult he’s gonna – he doesn’t even know. But it’ll be suitably dramatic. Maybe run at the wall till his brains puree out his ears.

“Yeah,” she snaps. “I get it. You don’t have to _watch_.”

Now she’s making a patronising shooing motion.

And – what. Jesus, she’s such a fucking prude. He wasn’t tryna cop a fucking glance. It’s not like he hasn’t seen her naked, nor as if she wasn’t getting that way not too long ago – begging him to join her.

He sneers. She’s the one making it weird, with her teeny one-track mind.

Whatever. Rio heads back in, lightly shaking his head. Shoves the contents of his pockets into the safe. Chucks the jacket in after.

But just as he’s laying another of the bags down in the bathroom, stepping out his jeans, she ahems loudly.

When he goes to look, down to final undershirt and boxers now, she’s stuck her head round the apartment door. Is struggling to bend the rest of her entirely outta view.

“Yeah?”

“Do I have to get – naked. Out here?”

He glowers. “Shoes off?”

Elizabeth nods. The gesture’s vaguely belligerent, but he can’t place how exactly.

“What you down to?”

“… _Underwear_.”

“Fine,” he says, like he wasn’t predicting this nonsense. “Straight in the shower, yeah? Rest of it goes in the bag there,” he thumbs at the bathroom. “Jewellery in the box on the sink. There’s towels. I’ll find you something to wear.”

She stares at him, huge-eyed. Eventually remembers to tip her head.

Soon as he turns, moving toward the highboy, he hears her strange skittering movements. The door slams, floorboards murmur.

Rio goes hunting. Finds himself a decent outfit – tee, sweatpants, socks, briefs – from the selection, easy.

But then he gotta find shit for Elizabeth. Well, another pair of socks ain’t hard. When they’re all black, any two match.

He holds the sweatpants up against his own body, imagining hers. Discards the idea, with a smirk. Might be worth getting her to try, if only for the contortions and grunts, some other time.

There’s a huge-ass plaid shirt that definitely _doesn’t_ belong to him hanging in the closet though. Rio figures that’ll do.

Shit, there really ain’t much in the way of lady things around. He makes a mental note to point that out to Mick, then scraps it. Soon thinks, nah, fuck it though. Idea’s getting un-tabled. Point doesn’t have to be ‘bout _her_ specifically, right. Operation could expand in all manner of directions after all.

It’s the same process with the boxers – the material held against his hips. He concludes: no.

She’s not locked, or even fully closed, the bathroom door. Which – whatever. He hears the steady cascade of liquid against tile as he enters, can kinda make out the silhouette of her behind the curtain. At least she’s upright.

Rio leaves the shirt and socks on top of the basket in there, ahead of checking the trash bag. Her purse is in, but she’s pulled most of the shit from it. The box resting on the sink is overflowing with her tat. Well – no matter. He'll sort it later.

After yelling that he’s left some clothes for her, he tacks on a warning not to take for-fucking-ever.

He closes the door, firm, after him when he leaves. The handle feels loose between his fingers, like it might yank from the door in his hold. Maybe he’s gripping too tight.

She ambles out, eventually, in the shirt. Clutching the socks to the centre of her chest, an inappropriate fetish. Her face is scrubbed, hair damp, eyes _dim_. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her so blanked.

His vision catch on the way the sleeves of the not-robe fall past her hands. It’s almost cute, along with how low it reaches – practically to her knees. But also. The fashion the material stretches and falls along her is – specific. Those splayed breast pockets each sport a single button, which he _swears_ map perfectly to the placement of her nipples.

Rio recognises the shirt now, his eye directed to a small Diesel tab to one side. It’s definitely Micky’s – idiot was so proud of it, then in a huge mood when he lost it. Musta left it hanging in the closet last time he was up here, and forgot it. Seriously, dude is straight up not allowed to boast about being the brains of the operation no more. This is one straw too many.

And it’s, well, a little off. Practically gawping at the sight of her in his friend’s clothing. But it’s only the juxtaposition, maybe.

While it’s buttoned all the way to the collar, there’s lengthy gaps between the inadequate small bastards, pinked flesh flashes between. There’s a pair of short slits, one to each side, exposing a little extra thigh. Which wouldn’t be such a thing if he didn’t _know_ she’s got nothing on under it and–

Elizabeth makes for the bed.

“Oi,” he says.

At least she turns.

“Dry off first.” Her legs are practically still dripping. He points at the chair, frowning.

Eventually she capitulates to what could barely be described as his hinting.

When he shuts the bathroom door, questing for his own shower, the handle still feels like shit. He swears it ain’t him, unless he’s suddenly gained super strength.

Dimly, an anecdote of Mick’s, ‘bout one of the stretches he’d been up here, more recent than Rio, tries to resurface. Something to do with Cisco freaking out on shrooms, Micky having to bash into the bathroom. Had one of them clowns had to repair something...? Rio admittedly hadn’t been entirely listening. It was a night back round when Elizabeth had gotten him locked up, after he’d taunted her ‘bout not having the balls to shoot him, then extracted his revenge on her husband. The former, on reflection, might not’ve been his very best idea.

He distinctly recalls there being brandy involved that evening out too, always a mistake of boundless proportions. And now he thinks on it, Mick maybe looked a bit too relieved while his story was being waved off.

When he comes out, changed, and _wearing_ his socks like a normal person, Elizabeth’s still in the same spot. She’s decorated the area with that familiar bottle of vodka though, it musta remained stashed in the corner kitchen cabinet, as well as a handy glass.

Rio dumps the trash bag from the bathroom outside the apartment door, with the other. Wanders back down. Makes sure everything’s locked up tight too; no one’s getting in that shouldn’t.

Elizabeth’s knocking back the pour when he returns. It’s unlikely her first. She’s – certainly glassy-eyed.

“Where am I sleeping?” she asks, springing to sentience.

He grunts, gestures to the bed.

She croaks, points at him, framing a question with the tip of her face.

And maybe he’d offer to take the couch. _Maybe_. She is still the bitch that almost killed him, so what’s he gotta be polite for.

Although – although. It’s manifestly kinda strange suddenly _not_ being the only person she ever shot. That’s not an award he was clinging to desperately or nothing, it’s just. Abruptly different. Specially balled with maybe sorta joining, incidentally doubling, the number she’s protected by loosing a bullet. Not that she was doing more than looking out for herself in the moment. But, he can’t deny he benefited.

It’s weird – the idea this might reconfigure shit, a bit. Cos he doesn’t think it’s exactly percolated in yet. That anger, the hatred, he has for her... It’s layered in tight – a solid cement.

So – so, okay. Maybe he would. _If_ there was a couch. But there ain’t, it’s barely more than a studio. Moot fucking point, yeah. And he certainly isn’t gonna take the floor, or some pointy chair. There’s manners and then there’s being a dumbass – one with a sore back too.

She only nods when he does anyway, apparently uninterested.

Rio figures she takes broadly the same view as him. It’s just a fucking space to pass out in. He’s shared a bed – this, others – with Mick or whoever enough times. She’s likely the same with her girls, or them million children she’s always on about.

“Hey!” she yells at him, as he moves toward the foot of the bed, to perch opposite.

For a second he assumes she’s spooked, but then she just starts shrieking that he took her phone off her. Which, yeah. He knows – what with having been the one doing it. Her reactions remain as appropriate and speedy as usual then.

Next comes freaking on the fact she’s supposed to be working at that lame-ass card store tomorrow too. Finally remembers to panic about her kids. At least reality’s flooding in.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Relax. Mick’ll handle it.”

Elizabeth becomes extremely amused by the idea of Mick going to see her husband – which is weird. Her sense of humour is usually garbage. He almost doesn’t have the heart to tell her the big guy’s more likely to go see lil sis.

“And he’ll call in sick for me at work, or?”

Rio shrugs. “Maybe. More likely go in person. Never know who’s listening.”

She hums. Then giggles, kinda manic. “You think they’ll think he’s my boyfriend?”

Rio’s – nonplussed. This high school vibe of hers is exhausting. If she asks him to paint her nails or have a pillow fight he’s genuinely going to drown at least one of ‘em at the earliest opportunity.

“They know I’m _married_!” She wriggles a – ringless – finger at him.

Then Elizabeth suddenly shifts into an entirely alternate gear. “Has he…said anything about me?” It’s hushed.

Rio sits very, very still. On balance, there _is_ a possibility she believes he sent Mick to audition for the role of her BFF, rather than as eyes and ears.

But she hurtles on. “I think there have been. A few miscommunications.”

And – sure. He’ll buy that. Sit a maniac next to a calm, methodical man – yeah, sounds entirely likely.

Elizabeth won’t stop with the abortive thrumming though. “Does he– Is he– Mm. Does he think I’ve been hitting on him?” The last part is intensely speeded. Her nose scrunches, awkward.

Now, on the one hand, that’s not outta left field. She’s unlikely to notice an innuendo, even if one ran up and robbed her of her right tit. It’s entirely plausible she’s been saying all kinds of insane shit to Mick, and he’s responded with laconic humour. How anyone might.

But, sliced some other method, Rio just – well, he never thought about it. And maybe he should’ve.

Micky doesn’t exactly seem Elizabeth’s type. Though, considering her muppet-impersonating husband, maybe a distinct type is not something she possesses. Plus – Mick’s not a bad looking guy. From a certain vantage point, one might extrapolate she’s got a thing for tatted, nose-pierced dudes with great voices who hang around her house a lot and–

But. _Mick_ wouldn’t.

She’s not – not actually his girl. Obviously. More a giant thorn. But his to play with. Distinctly off limits.

Still. Rio reckons it might be worth taking true control of the situation from here on out. If the plan’s to keep her obsessing over him, outsourcing probably ain’t the way to go. That stands to reason.

“I told him I have herpes,” she says, a little nervy.

He blinks. If that’s her idea of flirting – you know what. Makes perfect fucking sense, actually.

His mouth opens, but he finds he has nothing to say.

A couple of fingers tap idly against belly. “Think you can sleep?” trips out.

She pulls this wry face.

He grabs the pills from the bathroom cabinet, hands her two.

She grumbles when he makes her wash ‘em down with water, not vodka. Whinges larger as he drains her alcohol glass while she’s otherwise occupied. Loudest of all is where he re-places the bottle high above the cabinets. She’ll probably remember how chairs work tomorrow, but that feels like a problem for the future.

Rio debates popping one of the pills too, but they always make him fuzzy the next day, which he hates. And he’s flat-out exhausted as it is. Has been a while, really.

She settles into the bed a chunk before he does, lamps still on.

“You okay?” he asks, when he’s climbing in. It’s probably stupid, but just – the only person he’s used to saying good night to on a regular basis is Marcus.

“I killed you,” she murmurs.

Oh good, this again. “Nah, you didn’t. I came back, remember?” He tries to keep his tone to the gentler end of the scale.

She just stares.

He sighs. Says, “You did good today, kid.” Thumbs the base of her nose quickly.

Elizabeth almost-glares.

He huffs. “What? Both alive. Coulda gone a lot different.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Her voice is thick with – something. It could be suspicion. Or sleep.

“Not right now.” It maybe tastes of truth. He doesn’t feel much but bone-tired.

*

As it turns out, sharing a bed with Elizabeth might be the very worst idea he’s ever had.

To start with, she doesn’t hog the cover in a normal, respectable fashion. Instead she tries to burrow into it head first, gets all tangled. And then she wakes up crying, or yelling. Which he reckons is probably related to the self-imposed strangulation, so if she’d just stop being such a duvet-whore, the whole thing could probably be avoided, easy. She doesn’t even have the decency to act like waking someone up screaming is weird.

And, worse, she full on shakes him awake at one point to tell him she killed him. Which makes _minus_ quantities of sense.

It’s standard shit, he supposes. Kinda _boring_. He’s handheld through some of this type crap enough times – mostly round youth, though. Not grown ups who should know how to process stuff somewhat.

But it’s also – uncomfortable. Cos, well. Is this how she went, after? He hadn’t really dwelt on it. If anything, figured she might've been gloating. At ridding herself. Beating him. Pressing her advantage. It’s awkward, the way she keeps banging on _a_ _bout_ him. Like she’s adrift in time.

“Go to sleep,” he orders.

And, mercy of fucking mercy, she _does as she’s told_.

Before he passes back out, Rio wonders if maybe there’s a lesson there. Perhaps he should let her babble her nonsense out, say nothing himself, then provide the ruling.

He’s reminded of the brief stint where shit was super simple with Rhea. When he learnt to just say, ‘okay’, in response to any-fucking-thing. Though it hadn’t lasted, she’d cottoned on quick at that trick.

Besides, he thinks, yawning, they ain’t comparable situations.

The next time Elizabeth rouses him, it’s with her knee in his stomach. Despite her soft parts, she’s unreasonably _pointy_. He’s got a solid-skulled thigh-high kid who genuinely reckons that running at people’s legs is the greatest form of entertainment in the world, yet he still assesses her joints can do more damage than Marcus’ chin.

*

When he wakes in the morning, Rio’s arms are stuffed with her. It’s not as if he _minds_ exactly, has never had much quarrel with handling her. But – it’s embarrassing, kinda. For either of ‘em; he’s certain she’d be mortified over the thought of seeking comfort from him. Right now, especially. Plus he’s not particularly eager to give her further opportunity to twist them elbows at any sensitive spots.

He disentangles with well-earned proficiency. Ambles up to make coffee. Thank fuck there’s evaporated milk in the cabinet.

Elizabeth barely stirs at the aroma.

He wonders about heading to the farm to get some eggs. Is unsure if it’d be wise to show his face – though they think he’s a children’s illustrator with a penchant for scarves. Which he ain’t got with him. Ugh. He _misses_ his car.

But then he finds plenty hash browns in the freezer, decides those’ll do.

She refuses to get up. Eventually he insists. Bullies her into eating something too. It makes him feel odd, his own mother’s words falling out his mouth.

Rio heads out that night, with the trash bags. He sticks to the fucking system. Doing things that way ain't failed him yet.

Upon his return, Elizabeth don’t _look_ to have moved, but he’s certain there’s less in the vodka bottle.

It’s all just – dull. Again, the next morning it’s a huge-ass hassle.

He wouldn’t’ve exactly ever called her the greatest conversationalist, Elizabeth sure has a tendency to stick to certain hills, but this shit’s just _lame_. She won’t talk much, and when she does it’s all safe house this, I killed you that. Each instance of which is vibrantly – annoying.

He’s been holed up here, or situations alike, plenty. Hell, ain't long off that fed-sponsored hotel stretch. It’s never been so _draining_. Whether he was alone, or with one or some of the boys. Or that one time with the chick who’d gotten kinda accidentally caught up. That’d been – fun.

Normally he can ravel into a chilled state easy. But Elizabeth gets him all agitated. Twisted.

And what _should_ be the perfect distraction has faltered. He doesn’t seem to have enough to work out who did this. If it was a rival outfit, why take out the connect? Unless that was a fuck up. And – and maybe it could’ve been one of the investors, tryna push him out the way. It’s possible, he supposes, but _why_. His mind keeps circling suspiciously to Elizabeth. But he can’t make that sound sensical neither.

He plays solitaire. Reorganises the paltry paperback collections. Starts reading _Rage_ again. Is forcefully reminded of why he abandoned it here. Moves the books around again, this time ordered by first name cos why the shit not.

“How long do we have to stay?” Elizabeth asks, from the mattress.

“Till Micky’s all clear.”

“What if that never happens?” she whines, mawkish.

“It’s only been a couple days. Geez, chill.” God, she’s always so damn impatient.

*

The next afternoon, he decides he’s had enough. Strips the cover off the bed once he’s had lunch, and she’s _still_ nestled.

Jesus, her hair is _past_ lank. He sniffs. “You’re _ripe_. Go shower, man.”

Elizabeth grumbles incessantly until he agrees she can have coffee first, but he draws a line under a single cup, demanding she hurry.

Rio opens the windows wide as they allow. There’s a distinct scent of manure in the air, but it honestly might be preferable.

“That shirt needs washing too!” he yells from a safe nasal distance.

She literally punts the shirt at him from the bathroom, before slamming then locking the door. The handle vibrates for ages after.

He debates sourcing some tongs to handle the offending item with. When he can’t find any, considers setting fire to it instead. Surely Elizabeth can make herself a dress outta all the hair she incessantly moults over every inch or some shit.

Eventually he chucks it in for a wash with some other bits, holding his nose closed.

Elizabeth’s in the bathroom for fucking _ages_. He assumes it’s payback for pointing out she stunk, or whatever. But it ain’t cute.

He jiggles the handle, knocks on the door. There’s no response.

“Oi!” Rio shouts. “Hurry up, I gotta piss!” It’s not, strictly speaking, true. But. It _could_ be. Hogging the bathroom’s just rude.

“Go away!” she squawks. Then, “Go outside!”

He keeps it up, and she mostly ignores him. Though when he insinuates she’s taking the world’s longest shit, she does straight up tell him to fuck off.

The handle’s pissing him off, the more he wiggles it. Whatever Mick did was – dog shit.

And then also. He starts worrying. Just a bit. That maybe he shoulda done a sweep of the bathroom before ordering Elizabeth in there. Cos the cabinets are definitely replete with razors and pills and electrics or whatever.

He wanders over to the kitchenette, pulls the screwdriver from the drawer of odds and ends. Then comes back to the problem.

The casing to the handle twiddles off with a couple of twists from his thumb and forefinger, already loose. That reveals four drilled holes, but only two screws to ‘em – one of which is far too short, and barely in. It’s the work of seconds to get both of those gone. Then he yanks, the spindle comes through with this side’s handle. It’s a little hard to judge proper with the door still closed, but he’s pretty sure the spindle’s too long for it. Well, so then he butts the screwdriver through the hole. Barely applies pressure, and the handle on the other side falls away. Probably didn’t have a single fucking screw properly in on that side.

At least he’s worked out what’s wrong with the fucking thing, why he kept thinking it was gonna rip off in his hand. Turns out he’s not developing Hulk powers or whatever, which is – maybe a little disappointing. But at least comprehensible.

There’s no commotion from the other side. Perhaps Elizabeth didn’t hear over the combined noise of her spray and the background clinking of laundry.

It’s easy work to nudge the other end of the screwdriver through instead, anyhow. He finds the lock beneath the handle-hole, levers at it and – tada!

Rio knocks the door open, pleased. Not thinking of much beyond the glow from success over an inanimate object.

The first thing he notices, dimly, is how _wet_ the room is. Then – and mostly – what must be the cause: Elizabeth’s not bothered to pull the shower curtain proper closed. She remains self-absorbed as ever. Only she _really_ looks it. Eyes shut tight, shower head pressed between her thighs.

Her lids snap open. Shit, he must’ve made a noise or something. Alerted her to his presence.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she squeaks.

It suddenly strikes as a lot creepier to bust through a locked bathroom door to someone.

She doesn’t cover herself. Or – well. A hand flies to her midsection, but that’s not a whole lot of help.

He flicks his eyes _up_. It ain’t like he can’t imagine her nude any – and in fact more than he wishes – time. Although the generalised soaking, with the traces of suds, does form an engaging new addition. And so _what_ if he’s vaguely smirking.

He turns it on her. Which maybe isn’t fair. But whoever said he was?

“Me?! The fuck are _you_ doing?”

There’s some flails, just below his eyeline. He’s pretty sure she’s gesturing.

He swivels. Grabs the towel, leans it her way. Continues, “This supposed to be a normal response to killing someone? What, you a fucking sociopath?”

What must be the shower head clangs against tile.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” she spits. And – well, at least she sounds livelier.

His eyes rove to her immediately, uncontrollable. She’s tied the towel around her. His pupils journey.

“I just want to feel. Better.”

Oh great, now she she’s chirring as if seconds from sobs again.

“Feel _anything_ ,” Elizabeth amends. “Which you’d understand if you– If you. Just. _If_.”

She’s glowering. And – _jesus_. Does she fucking think she invented jerking off, or what?

The water's snapped off. Strange-angled flow lessens to weak clapping drips as she storms out, past him.

He can’t help it, the urge to tease simply an automatic spring at this point. “If you’re _that_ desperate for a decent fuck, coulda just asked.”

She turns back to him, where he’s now leaning against the jamb, totally _appalled_ by the joke.

He figures she’s remembering last time she – asked. Shit was a little different back then though. To start with, they could leave.

“I do not want! To have sex with you!” One of her hands shakes toward him at each word, like she’s gearing up to karate-chop apart the air between ‘em.

See, he would’ve totally left it. If she hadn’t said something so preposterous-sounding. That forces his ire tall. Why she always gotta be so fucking _dishonest_ about it all? And – and maybe he coulda abandoned the path anyway but. There’s just something about her. When she forgets about everything but how _mad_ she is at him.

“So that was some other bitch in the back room of your shop with the shitty seduction bit? Right, my mistake.”

Elizabeth genuinely looks confused. For a second he believes she might not remember. She’s been addled enough, of late. Or, hey, maybe she does have blackout episodes, possibly poltergeist-possessed ones. That’d actually make a quart of sense.

But then, “That’s not what I said.” Her face crinkles.

“I asked you to–” Elizabeth sighs. Closes her eyes. “Return the favour.”

She makes a _truly_ obscene tongue-gesture. And then she turns back around. Starts striding off.

And. Hold on. No she did _no_ _t_. He’s got perfect damn recall of what happened there. Has maybe replayed the set-up a time or – or several. Considered how else it mighta gone. Not with regret, hell fucking no. But toyed with a few lil fantasies around it. Privately. Without _intent_.

Though now he trawls over it… Well, plausibly that coulda been her aim. Jesus, how’d he miss _that_? With the way Elizabeth’d moaned extra fucking special at his mouth on her, like no one’d got her off like that in all of forever.

Rio can picture exactly how that coulda propelled, had he clocked her suggestion. Oh, it’d’ve been so easy. Prop her up on the table, maybe. Her legs spread wide. That stupid apron shoved up. Or, no. _Gone_. Yeah, better. A view of Elizabeth _all_. Her bare cunt, ever-glistening for him. It’d be simple as cheesecake. To begin. Get her near. Pull away. Refuse to end it. _Laugh_.

Only. Only he knows exactly what she’s like. She’d never take _that_. How would she have filled the wake? Probably stubbornly started working her fingers at herself. And then what, would he have tried to _stop_ her? Nah, c’mon, he’s not a masochist, ain’t itching to get stabbed. Left, then? He can’t even try to convince himself that’s plausible. No, he’d watch. Obviously. And. And after seeing her, sweaty and messy and obsessed and so fucking turned on and moaning that awful way she does, ending sorta but not really sated – well. Could he really have held back, after that?

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

“ _What_?” She whirls, eyes wide open.

He thinks about it, and his next words are the god’s honest. “Whatever, I’m fuckin’ bored.”

She gapes.

“What, wanna play gin rummy instead?”

A scoff tumbles out her next. He mimes towel-dropping. Gestures with his head.

And she– She– _What_?!

She stumbles to sit down _hard_ , at the bottom edge of the bed. Is certain her breathing stops, momentarily. Cold prickles at her belly, even as she gulps a lungful. Beth’s never much trucked with the notion of gastric butterflies, associates anticipation with a stilling, terrible chill. Perhaps it’s a sensation too often linked with dread for her.

Only, suddenly, she’s far too warm.

Rio narrows his eyes at her. Starts bitching about her sitting at _his_ side. Cos she’s all wet. How she better not try to lie down.

She stares up, confusion pooling deep and – and evident. And. _And_. And! She really hasn’t got the brainspace for his fucking games right now! Cos. Well. Just – _because_.

After he first came back, it was okay. Kind of. She was wise to it, certain what his touches and taunts were, at least. Calculated, intentional provocation. But then he spent weeks upon weeks engaged in – god, there’s simply no way to describe it beside aggressive flirtation. Making her believe that– Well. In chance, perhaps.

And then! Then, in the backroom, when he let her– _That_. Where she’d started rusty and toothy and awkward, with him so _into_ it still. Allowing hope to fester. It had made her feel _powerful_. Not just wanted. Or. The significance that she still was mattered, anyway. How eagerly he’d– That he might–

_However_. He shut her down. So unkindly, so voluminously. When she’d only been asking for payment in kind, really. With the hungry way he’d been looking at her before, he’d seemed _so_. Just. _So_.

She’d been right, though. At – _from_ – the beginning. Rio’d been toying with her the whole fucking time, and she _hates_ him. Not just for that. _But_.

Gosh, the very idea that she could have a firm grasp on what the hell is going on is laughable. It’s been so long since last she did.

He – he fucking killed someone in front of her. _Again_. And then she– Well, apparently remains incapable of breaking free from that monkey see, monkey do cycle. She _ended a life_. Ag– _Actually_.

And now she’s stuck with _him_! The worst harrier to possibly have to be around. A personally-crafted hell. All Beth craves is to be _alone_. In silence. Moments to sort through the whole.

She’s unsure if he’s goading her simply by instinct, or if the gibing is a misguided attempt to pull her from her funk. Or if he’s possibly downed all the rest of the vodka in one, purely to prevent her getting at it. _Asshole_.

But.

Maybe it’s different now. Again. Somehow. Because he’s kneeling. Oh god, he’s kneeling. Not _near_ near, but. He’s too close. Beth finds that her thumbs are noodling with the fold of the towel, at the peak of the valley between her breasts. And.

“Don’t. Tease,” she breathes, eyes off.

“You like it.”

Her vision sparks home to him. He’s smirking, obviously.

And he’s. Maybe not entirely wrong. She remembers – or no, perhaps that’s not the right word, it’s nothing so active, she simply cannot forget – Rio drawing out those orgasms in her bedroom. Every ludicrous come-on of their acquaintance, paired with glimpses of his teeth – whether showing through a smile or tightly gripping lip. His hands stroking, mocking, _stoking_. How suspense froths from jitters, pricks as gooseflesh; her skin readying her for metamorphosis.

On the other side of the equation, she has no more space for cruelties. Hers. His. Whoever’s. If he doesn’t mean it, is going to laugh in her – _face_. If he simply. Stops. And then she has to stay here. With him. She already feels destroyed to her core, atomised. Clouded.

“Just don’t,” is what she settles on.

He mms. Nods, mostly with the top of his head. Conveys, she thinks, broad agreement. Only – she can’t trust him. But.

Beth shuts her eyes. Takes a couple of steadying breaths.

Pulls away the towel.

She feels – something. Material sliding along from her back, side. Or maybe. Maybe it’s only imaginary. Her skin is fizzing, desperately waiting. She’s shivery.

Eventually Beth risks a glance down. He’s just _staring_ , all pupil. Mostly at her breasts. And, god, were her nipples _this_ hard a moment ago? It’s unfair. So, so unfair. How he still plumbs such reactions from her, how she always just– She can _feel_ wetness seeping.

His eyes drop to her knees. He mimes a parting motion with his stupid, giant hands.

Beth balloons in a large breath, holds it to her lungs. Her thighs fall lax, far-distant.

He peers up at her, shuffled so _tight_. Eyebrows pulled high, maybe just by the angle. Then one side of his mouth tips raised, bottom lip plunging forward and meeting his top front teeth.

When he licks the length of her slit, slow, then very not, Beth groans out, “Oh, oh, my god.”

She’s certain the motions of his tongue turn-self satisfied, as he pushes at her opening. Against the full force of every nerve ending in her body clamping, squeezing. Because it’s too _much_. Not only the feel, and sight, though those are – a _lot_. But the – the wrenching sense of _possibility_.

His tongue-tip wriggles inside; Rio remains persistent as ever.

She decides, given one of his hands at the top of her ass pulling her close, and the other shoving her right thigh back, that he can dang well handle her balance. Or not. If she tumbles, it’ll be him bearing the brunt of the problem.

Beth raises her left hand to her mouth. Clamps down on the side of it, _hard_. Grips the bottom knuckle of her first finger. Shuts herself _up_.

And she – she. Tries to hold on to reality. How this doesn’t mean to him what it must to her. It simply _can’t_.

Beth shouldn’t like to be tasked with guessing how many women he’s done this with. Whereas she’s got a grand old list of two. And one of those is Dean, who barely counts, surely.

Rio moves to sucking at her clit. Her eyes snuff shut. She bites harder than possibility at her own hand. Still something whines out her, it sounds like it’s pulsing from high in her nose. It’s not _fair_.

This. _This_ is what’s put her off the idea of – of sleeping with someone else, maybe. Well, it’s certainly not from loyalty to Dean.

Either it turns out she and her husband are a chemical dud, and she could have had _this_ with anyone and if that’s the case then, god, what a _waste_. Or – or. It wouldn’t be _this_. And maybe that’d be a whole lot scarier.

His tongue’s deep inside her, rubbing deliciously, and her hips are climbing as she tries to quite literally fuck his face and he _takes_ it, moaning in that unfairly enthusiastic way.

And, no. He doesn’t _tease_ tease. Does not pull away or, worse, talk. But she’s quite certain he could hurry up the proceedings, especially if he involved those fingers. And – god. She can’t _miss_ them, long and confident and quickening. One can’t miss something they’ve barely known, surely.

And, okay, she relaxes into them twiddling at her nipple. Only when she looks, those are her own fingers. She’s barely anchored, he’s basically keeping her upright and – _ugh_. _Ohh_.

Rio’s nibbling at her clit again and Beth finds herself making these donkeyish brays. Discovers that both her hands are shoving at his head, pulling him in, his two-handed grip on her ass grinding her against his face. And – oh jesus. She is _flowing_. Beth burns with relief when her orgasm catches – floats its crowning, and along his mouth.

He does pull away, after some gentling licks. She shudders, aftershocks attacking. Prolonging.

But then his face twists, unkind. Those hands meet in their grip at the base of her back, almost painful, nudging her upward against her attempted sprawl.

“Why you so desperate,” he tuts.

She’s about to point out whose idea this was.

“To sleep on my side?” he attaches.

It doesn’t particularly make sense. He could’ve moved her, if he cared so much. And she has zero recollection of straying across the bed any instant prior.

He shoves his head back between her still very much spread thighs.

It takes her a second to catch up. “Hey!”

Rio doesn’t respond. Or maybe he does, but it’s not coherent, all inaudible buzzing.

“What are you doing?” She arches slightly, at the soft glaze of his tongue. And. God. If he’s trying to – clean her up. This is a very bad method. Is surely making it worse.

She claws at the top of his ear. “I– I finished already,” Beth gasps.

He pulls off. Snaps, “ _Yeah_ ,” all moody. Acting like she’s interrupted important dealings without cause.

“I noticed.” He rubs at the top of first one ear, then the other. “That’s gonna bruise.”

And – oh. Right. Yes. She sort of dimly recalls how she was hanging on to him there, at the end. He looks disgustingly smug, though. So she doesn’t apologise. Her gaze drops to her hand, dental-indented. She recalls yellowish-green finger marks at her thighs, uneager to fully fade. Evidence of chomps circling her areola. Is about to say something cutting about war wounds. Remembers why she shouldn’t.

She almost wants to thrust him away. But he’s sitting back on his haunches, waiting. Not patiently, no, she couldn’t say that. But sort of – permissive.

His fingers fumble with air. “ _Said_ I was bored.”

She wants to laugh. Like – a _good_ laugh. Her internal organs flip, perform some circus trick. Beth settles for an attempted smile. The reshaping quivers, unfamiliar.

He nods. “Besides,” he mutters. “You had yours.”

And she’s – she’s not sure what that means. Gets little chance to ask, because he’s pushed back – tongue dragging deliberately slow. The continual taunting, bristling tempo has her reckoning she’s pieced together the picture though, as he takes his fucking time at playing her.

He breaks away to gnaw at her hip, frittering attention at the red ink there. Rio seems to be murmuring, accusatory, about the pointedness of her bones. Which – she’d have something to say about, were his fingertips not ghosting at her entrance. She tries to hump down at them, desperate, but he moves with her.

“Please,” she groans.

“What?” he asks, lifting away. Eyes sparking.

“Please.” Beth’s unsure there’s much to her vocabulary than repetition, right now.

What he says next gives her pause. It’s just one word, though the syllables splinter at a distance. “Again.”

There’s a pulsing need to rip an ear from his head.

But. But also. He’s staring up at her like all he needs is to hear her begging, and he’ll give her whatever – if she’ll just act out his game. She’s not sure she wants to know what happens if she aims for his bluff instead.

Beth sighs. Whispers, “ _Please_.”

“Please what?” He hits that ‘t’ so hard it practically cracks.

“Just–” She whines. “Please.”

He’s already back. She can’t see, obviously, but she assumes Rio’s grinning. Beth maybe finds that fact less annoying than she ought to. Can just – empathise.

Soon she’s not sure if it was worth capitulating. He’s still teasing so. Keeps pulling away. Laving little licks, but not _enough_.

“ _God_ ,” she moans. Should stuff her mouth with hand again, stifle herself. But what’s the point. He _knows_.

“I can’t–” The last word burns long into the air. “Stop it,” she whinges, bucking.

“Sure?” he asks.

She barely registers how ludicrously _wet_ his mouth is, is so busy yelping her disagreement at the pause. Beth’s not sure she’s been this sweat-soaked since last giving birth.

She sees a flash of teeth before he shunts back. And finally, _finally_ , he’s lapping with real purpose. She’s fairly sure the hold she forms at the back of his head should prevent any further fuckery. Though, admittedly, he doesn’t exactly seem to be trying to make an escape. Rio groans into her as he cleaves her open.

Beth comes speared on his tongue, one of her own fingers nudging her clit.

Afterward, with him somehow having achieved extrication, she does collapse back.

She sort of registers his looming presence, though she can’t be bothered to open her eyes. Sends a flail in what she thinks might be the direction of a leg.

“No mas,” she decrees, stern. And can’t understand why that has him cackling so damn hard, at least for a moment.

Her skin flares. That’s something Annie and Ruby say all the damn time!

“You can chill on this side,” he grants, sweet.

Beth’s eyes slit, no trust to burn.

“One condition.”

She does _try_ to ignore him. Her expression must stumble, on accident.

“If you’re on me.”

He looks terribly pleased with himself. Beth tries to convey – _something._ With her face.

But he starts drumming his, the flat of his grouped fingers thwacking low against his cheeks, down toward jaw. The sound quality, she must admit, is pretty good, with his lips pursed so.

He’s being preposterous. And – and, she guesses, insatiable has to be the word. But then he’s bitching about his knees and hauling her along, and she’s giggling, kind of. At least until she finds her towel, still damp to the touch, flung across her side of the bed.

Beth tries to glare at him – the weeny little _asshole_ – only… Only she can’t see his face. Because she’s sort of covering it. And when had he even– Though then he begins sucking and tonguing, and she can’t last long against it. The angle’s powerfully pleasant, her hips won’t stop jumping.

Beth finds she needs both her hands’ grip at the headboard, cos Rio’s only got a loose grasp at one of her thighs, the other hand moving distinctly breastward.

She’s a little lost in the sea of memory too. This isn’t exactly like the occasion in her bed – she’s facing the other way, can’t _see_. But it’s reminiscent enough to tangle and tear through time.

She babbles. Some things. About his mouth. Which – well, that’s understandable. Maybe questions too. Why. He’s doing this. Wants to. But. He probably can’t hear it.

It’s tired, that last one. Shorter. Not explosive like earlier. She might like it best nonetheless.

Anyway. The point is, it’s not her fault. What she mumbles into his pillow after, as he tries to shove her sideways, once she’s collapsed back down. She’s flying out of her body, far from mind. Trying to remember how breathing works, troubled by the slinking suspicion that she’s never known, that it’s something that can normally handle itself unsupervised. He executed a combined sneak attack, and she can’t be held responsible for her words in such a situation.

Plus, it’s not as if she says it _to_ him. Not exactly. “If that happened every day, maybe I wouldn’t be so mad at you.”

Laughter snags, slow and deliberate, out of him.

“Yeah, that the key to not getting shot?”

She half-struggles to raise from her position smooshed on her front, before she collapses down once more, giving up. Shrugs her back. Cos – well. Kinda, maybe?

Not – not literally. Exactly. But if she could believe he wanted her, for more than a patsy, wasn’t eager to abandon her at the earliest convenience, then – yeah. Maybe she’d be more willing to listen to him.

“Ha,” he says. Like someone pretending to be amused by a bad joke, which she hadn’t made. But he goes on, “Way I remember it, last time ended with you throwing me out.”

Beth sniffs. Gestures a vague loop with the fingers of one hand.

“Oh what,” he scoffs, almost as if she’s keeping her side of the conversation going, which – maybe she is, after all. “I’m supposed to turn up the next night, demand you open up?”

And – well. Not _yes_.

_But_. Some sign right _then_ that he wasn’t gonna let her go easy. That could have changed everything. Might have given her the courage to believe in possibility. To deal with Dean another way, one that didn’t involve terror-lined capitulation. Rio hadn’t offered her a single morsel. Had _left_.

She’d figured – the two men probably weren’t all that different, really. Dean only seemed to pump his sails full of territorial desire for her once he noticed he was losing her. But that had cut the other way, right? Rio merrily screwed her while she was out on a date with her husband; again in her marital bed. Hadn’t argued when she said it was over. And, god, the callous way he’d described the escapade, during that awful clinic visit. She was certain she’d been filling a little housewife fantasy for him too – just, the point was she was someone else’s. Was certain that played into the willingness to allow her to delay a deadline by dropping to her knees.

So this is – anomalous, really.

Beth notices that his breaths sound. Odd.

She tips her head up to look.

Their knees jostle as she instantly half-turns.

He’s – his hand is pumping along his. His cock. Clothing shoved away haphazardly, exposing. It’s a _moment_ before she’s able to drag her eyes up to his face.

“Oh I’m sorry,” he surges, sounding pretty far from such an emotion. “Am I supposed to go use the bathroom?”

Her mouth is wide. He is _not_ slowing down. He’s just – he’s very much _jerking off_ , next to her. Like this is normal.

Her eyes pulse shut. “What _was_ that about?” She turns a non-existent handle.

Beth dares to look for an answer. Just at his _face_.

He huffs. “You were taking ages.”

Which – “ _Yeah_.” Her tone’s deadpan.

Her eyes float down. Just to illustrate that he’s clearly familiar with the _concept_.

Only then she considers other lengthy stints in bathrooms. Doing nothing worse than lying on the floor, or sobbing in the bath. Take such tendencies, mash them with – with what happened. What she did. How she’s been. He can’t have – worried about her, surely. The notion settles like bad seafood, roils and bursts.

Her gaze dips. And – fuck. There’s pre-come _everywhere_. His hand’s so big, and falling to a blur.

Beth sort of wants to reach out, touch. But – would that be letting him win? Allowing him to press an advantage, how he does, when he’s opened her, clawed suppressed vulnerability to her surface. Snatch the progress she thought won. Losing this satisfied, long-wanted feeling? It would damage her apart, she’s certain. Plus she’s just so _tired_.

She re-settles, flat on her front once more. But her head stays up, angled at him.

“Do you wanna...” Her eyes slide. “On – me?”

“ _Yeah_.” It’s instant, his response. He’s already moving.

“You have to.” Beth attempts to bind the flush venturing. “Clean up. After.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, in that semi-listening way. But then he flicks a grin her direction, says, “Towel right there.” His eyes point past the other side of her body.

She has a large chunk of mind to grab the thing, so she can smack Rio with it. That does feel like a lot of _effort_ though.

“You want me to,” she asks, neck craning as she sort of – mostly telepathically – suggests. Moving. Offering different – parts.

“No.” He scrabbles out of view, so she gives up; lets her neck fall.

“ _Perfect_ ,” he murmurs.

She knows he’s solely commenting on the position, she does. She does.

Beth feels, like, air pressure. Or _something_. Is certain his hand’s hovering above her ass. But maybe that’s only built in her mind.

There’s no mistaking his come spattering her body, though. That’s not imaginary. And when he’s stroking the surroundings, she’s lost to her skin. It’s a while before he tidies her up, she thinks.

He settles in beside her. Tries to nudge her into the space between pillows, off his.

Then she hears it, whisper-quiet. “You _seen_ you?”

She doesn’t know if he’s just – talking. Or. If he heard.

“Shit,” he adds. “Felt you?”

His finger swipes at her cunt, unexpected. Which is – she’s _exhausted_. Can _not_ go again. Or – anyway, isn’t willing to investigate the possibility. He does nothing but lightly ply though, little intent to it.

“Always so fucking tight.”

Beth is very close to saying something extremely snide about how muscles work, when he goes again. Emphasising.

“ _You’re_ always so fucking tight,” almost – aggrieved.

She thinks she follows his meaning, it makes her roll her eyes. He’d said something along such lines, that afternoon in her bed. About her husband not treating her right. And she’d known he meant – sex. But she’d shut her eyes and tried not to cry, and then Rio’d been dragging her back at a maddening pace and it’d been easy to focus on not words.

Well. She’s never known him to waste – a resource, an opportunity. Whatever.

She doesn’t want to think about then. Beth shifts from his touch, shoves at his hand. Snips, for something to say, “Are you slut-shaming me? Cos that doesn’t even make sense.”

He snorts. “You sure ‘bout that?”

And, god. She would _love_ that to be right. To possess the exciting experiences of Annie or him or, yes, even Dean. Not that she’d trade her kids, hell no. But she feels so foolish, so lacking.

“Don’t remember that bathroom, hubby waiting outside?”

Beth clears her throat. “Well, yes. _Once_. One time.”

When she meets his eyes she’s poised to blow his smugness off. But Rio’s not smirking, face sharpened rather.

“Tell me,” he demands. “What made me so special?”

Beth looks askance at him. “I could ask you the same.”

He makes a puzzled noise.

“Oh what, you can’t tell me you have a hard time getting laid.” Then Beth reflects. “As long as you don’t demonstrate your personality. Like, at all.”

He chuckles. Adds in, “Right, and I’m the first person ever looked at you? C’mon.”

And – he’s not wrong exactly. But it’s amazing what work a wedding ring, and a skirt composed of children, and the uniform of suburbia could form as buffers.

“Right place, right time,” Beth breezes.

Rio looks far, far too pleased. “Oh,” he says through a laugh. “You must really hate him.”

And. Ah. He must be remembering her seeking him that night, Dean in tow. Or the other, luring him to her bed. But that’s not what she meant. Or. Not only.

Had been musing on his entry to her life. When she’d discovered Dean’s lies, was desperately sourcing stray confidence-bolstering scraps.

“I don’t hate him,” Beth responds. It’s true. She did once, probably. When she found out. About Amber and the money and the cancer and the more. When he insulted her, that night. Jeopardised everything for those tiny supposed hit men. Stole her kids. It’s dusted down now. Nothing Dean does can surprise her any longer.

Rio seems to find the statement _more_ entertaining.

He’s maybe half drifted off when Beth announces, “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, well. Some of us ate.”

*

He claims the dryer’s busted and she has to wait for the shirt to air dry. Beth’s not entirely sure she believes him.

She holes up in bed. _Naked_. Cannot remember the last time she spent so long that way. Not even on her honeymoon, she thinks. Dozes some, cos there’s not much else to do in this stupid spartan safe house. Has to rush back and forth to the duvet from the bathroom a few times, gigglish.

Rio grumblingly agrees to let her eat pizza from bed, making her hang the plate off the side. While he mutters about crumbs incessantly. Although he doesn’t keep much of an eye to it. Fiddles the door handle back together, tutting the whole time. Essentially interrogates her about power tools and vegetables from his spot, without looking.

He turns in absurdly early. Beth doesn’t really question it, exhausted as she is. Maybe he’s finally acknowledging the joys of sleep. The hollows under his eyes are too pronounced.

When he pulls back the cover, his actions are sluggish, adding credence to her theory. He simply holds it up an age, stands unmoving, groaning like he’s a hundred years old. Then, tells her back as he slides on in, “If you’re good, I’ll fuck you in the shower in the morning.” Apropos of essentially nothing.

“Good at what?” Beth asks thickly.

He snorts. “If you behave.”

Beth blinks her private confusion. “What does that mean?”

“If you can go one damn night without causing me serious bodily harm.”

“Can’t promise that.” She’s smiling, she finds.

He hmms.

“What?”

“Maybe,” he begins, trailing a finger along her shoulder blade. “Hard. Fast.”

She gulps.

“Yeah?” he says.

She just kind of – breathes.

And Rio, she seriously swears, _giggles_. It’s a small thing, vibrating round his nostrils, near her neck. But it is unreasonably amused by her response.

And, all right – fine. Yes. Yes, _please_. Cos. Cos. That’s what she assumed she’d get – way back when. What Beth had fantasised on before, had been so eager for in that bathroom, leaning against the sink.

Only. Only it had been an entirely different whirlwind she was presented with. Rio eager to touch, savour. Not – not pushing. But assured. Cue-coursed. He’d nudged her around, softly, and – and hiked her upon that sink. Pushed back inside her. Her head had tipped toward his shoulder. And she’d tightened her legs around him, and he’d hauled her onto him, holding her up, and she’d _moaned_ and squirmed on him, and inhaled the flavour of his neck and sort of flailed at him, and he’d groaned and shoved her against the wall, and fucked into her _deep_ , and and and almost slow and – it’s not like the time in her bed had been any _less_ like that, fuck.

“Yeah,” he says, in that same tone. “Won’t even get you off.”

Beth freezes. “Why would I want that?”

Sourness is rising, sliming up her oesophagus.

“Cos,” he says, extra low, “Then I’ll go at you real slow. Use that shower head you so bad with.”

There’s a difference between a lack of skill, and being rudely distracted from the task at hand by someone yelling about excrement. She’s tempted to point that out. But. She’s zoned in on the idea.

Beth thinks about it. Like really thinks about it. It’s hard to find her voice.

“You can. You can screw me. However. However you want. Use me.”

Breath hisses into him.

“But no. Then – then you put your fingers. In m– Me.” Her cheeks are so flushed. She’s beyond glad she’s facing _away_.

“Well, no,” he says after a second. “See, I’d have a hand on you,” he reaches for a hip. “Need a hand for it.”

She opens her mouth to negotiate. “But–”

“Sweetheart,” shivers into her ear. It’s serious, sounds like a warning. And she – she won’t be cowed. “Pretty sure it ain’t possible to fuck you without you getting all the way off.”

_That_ has her shuddering.

Rio licks over her pulse. “Believe me,” he adds. “I thought about it. But you’re always. Shit. Ready to blow.”

She whimpers. That’s in no way true. He’s just so– And he always–

“Want my fingers?”

Oh god. _Oh god_. Beth nods, large. She squirms when she feels them, exploratory at first. Then there’s two inside, stretching.

“Tell me,” he demands. Unfairly cool. “You always like this?”

Beth does not bite the bait.

“Dripping wet for me, every time we talk?”

She chews ahold of her lip.

His fingers _curve_. “Creaming those teeny-tiny panties?” He says it like he distinctly remembers peeling underwear from her. “Hoping you ain’t soaking through your jeans, that I can’t see? Hell,” he sniffs. “That I can’t fucking smell you?”

“Mmn – nuh uh,” Beth whines.

His thumb finds her clit as he laughs.

“When we’re arguing?”

She moans.

“When you work a pay rise?” The thumb circles, circles, circles.

Till Beth grits out, “Yeah, oh. Yeah. There. Yeah. There.”

He cackles. His thumb melts from her, those fingers stay pumping.

She finds she has access to lower brain function again.

“Why?” she accuses. “That’s what turns you on – money? Arguing?”

“What you think?” he mutters, tonguing at her ear.

She spasms, clenches.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

And what _now_. Seriously. Doesn’t he ever shut up.

“I’m gonna fuck you.”

And – “Yes.” He doesn’t laugh at the speed of her reply.

But he does hum. And Beth – she has an inkling where this is trekking. But she isn’t above begging, as it’s turned out. Not – not when she’s so absurdly sure that he wants her too. Which is – admittedly maybe because there’s nothing else to do. But she knows he does. Mostly cos she is certain that she would strangle him if he messed with her right now, that he has to recognise that too.

It’s intoxicating, nevertheless. Because he shouldn’t want her. He really, really shouldn’t. But she couldn’t turn it off. How they met didn’t seem to matter. Him shooting Dean. Making her a murderer. Killing Lucy. Every fucking threat. How he split her wide open and mocked her for this very fact – none of that stopped her. None of it. She must be broken. But he has to be too.

She feeds him his encouragement. 

His thick cock slides into her. The thought gasps: maybe this is the sole way they’ve ever made sense. That they don’t destruct each other via.

This position’s not unfamiliar to her, reminds her particularly of pregnancies.

Only – it wasn’t quite like this. Rio takes hold of her hips, _works_ her, controlling the speed entirely. And it’s not as if Beth has _ever_ enjoyed being pinned down, ceding control. But it’s just – _he knows how to do it_. It’s very not how it was with _Dean_ , the way he’d wanted her to match his rhythm, inevitably slipping out of her when she got close and lost her place – her orgasm skittering. It’s just– Uhhhn.

One of Rio’s hands lifts, pushes between her shoulders, till she’s bent forward, diagonal across the bed. Her ass pushed up to him as he angles strokes into her. This configuration is _so_ – She kind of misses his warmth, but his hand rubs over her vertebrae, as the other drives her back and forth. He's hitting so _deep_.

“You can hold it,” he mumble-offers.

She croaks a query.

“Shower head.”

Beth tries to laugh. It doesn’t work very well.

He keeps on talking about it. In an obscenely detailed way. Her fresh-fucked pussy, reddened and _puffy_ , which isn’t a word she often has positive associations with. The sight of his come dripping from her. That precision force against her clit. How much writhing she’ll apparently be doing. Water’s honestly never sounded hotter. And then she’s coming, one of her hands providing something to bite against, the other atop his on her hip, clutching, clutching, clutching, clutching.

He pulses into her moments later, body digging against hers at the locations they’re pressed.

Jackass teases her a little, after. Acts he won’t bother cleaning either of them up since they’ve got shower plans for the morning.

His fingers run through the mess, and then his respiration changes, lists less smug.

“I’m on the pill,” Beth supplies. Although now she thinks about it, she’s unsure if she’s kept that up the last few days. Everything’s hazed.

“And?” he pushes, in that warning kind of tone.

Shit, she thinks. _See_. He gets her all softened, then pounces. Well, she might not have been _then_. And anyway the efficacy isn’t perfect. This proves nothing about the truth of her pregnancy save.

“And no herpes?”

Beth spins to scowl, angered. “ _No_!” And then she remembers. Mutters, eyes palm-cushioned, “Why did I tell you that?”

“ _Me_?” He’s playing alarmed. Or. She thinks it’s a pretence, anyway. “Why _Mick_?”

Beth glares. Drips, “Did he really…not mention that?”

Rio’s head shakes.

“What did he…mention?”

He narrows his eyes. “What should he?”

“Nothing!” Then, her protest not having been welcomed with wild endorsement, “He really like IHOP, huh?”

Rio snickers. Sort of shifts like he doesn’t want to be talking about Mick in the moment though, as he wipes at first her, then himself.

They struggle to get comfortable, around the composition of lingering wet spots.

He clambers close, clearly across the boundary, prompting Beth to complain that it’s _his_ mess, but he accuses her of leaking plenty.

And then Rio has the gall to distract her from her biting response, running his tongue up her arm, toward her shoulder, at the rim of her armpit.

When she says that’s _gross_ , he sighs in pleased agreement.

They eventually drift toward sleep back-to-back. It’s fairly comfortable, stretching and arching vaguely against his solid, straight column.

Rio complains unreasonably when she cracks her spine against him, claiming it’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever experienced. Up to and including being shot in the lung.

*

She rouses from some unpleasant dream. It’s dimmed on impact with reality, bar a few greasy fragments: Annie dropping her at the warehouse, and then straight away it’s her shooting–

Her shooting–

Her shooting–

_Him_.

But that doesn’t stop him and–

Beth finds she’s snuggled into his arms. It’s not – peculiar, weirdly. Maybe it’s just how much of his company she’s endured the past few days; this is by far the longest amount of time they’ve ever spent together. And all she’s been, for really quite some while, is a series of jumbles.

Muscle memory sparks. Like maybe this happened before, over the past few nights…? But surely not.

Rio goes to untangle, pulled to quasi-wakefulness by the force of her freaking. Beth makes an automatic noise of protest. His eyes crack. There’s a flicker of recognition.

“Back to sleep, sunshine,” he mumbles. Then adds something that sounds very much like it’s about pointy elbows. She hopes that’s him apologising for his, geez.

His hold tightens.

Beth coasts back under.

*

The real shower is nothing like she was promised.

He clambers behind her while she’s under the spray. Rotates her waiting form. Lifts her, shoves her against the wall. Fucks into her slow. She realises it might be mostly due to how much he likes fiddling with her expectations.

Beth’s eyes tremble shut.

The tips of two elegant fingers ply her clit.

She thinks she’s about to fall, crash off balance. That maybe it’d be worth it.

It’s only afterward, when they’re towelling off, that she gets a proper view of his chest. Of – those. That.

She squeezes at his bicep, unsure of what to say.

Rio pinches her nipple, unreasonably sharp. Beth almost goes flying, it’s so unexpected.

When his other hand comes up, she assumes it’s to steady her. Instead he crashes her next to the towel rack. Yanks her leg up at an angle that _aches_. Bites into her big toe as he rubs against her while she attempts to refrain from begging, and he taunts her to open her eyes.

*

She put the shirt back on, and fuck if he knows why. He’s naked, and she’s gonna be too in a fucking second – so this dressing sure seems a pointless time-suck.

Elizabeth keeps trying to knock him to his back too. And, yeah, he worked the why of that one out. She thinks she’s slick but – no. Which, hell, it’s not like he’s not gonna let her or nothing, there’s just something he gotta do first.

Rio pops another button, finally exposing tit. The skin there’s roughened. She never seems to notice his beard prickling at the time, though turns out she can’t stop fucking fussing about it after the fact. She’s the one who won’t let go of his head whenever he’s got his mouth on most any part of her, so far as he’s concerned she should take it up with her own damn self.

As he re-nuzzles, to zero complaint might he add, she lets out these _prusten_ kinda vibrations. It’s – inviting.

He’s just coaxing the thing off her shoulders, when Mick says, “Howdy.”

Elizabeth screams. Tries clutching the shirt shut. When Rio’s hand doesn’t evaporate out her way fast enough for her liking, she instead flings the duvet up over her head, burrow-contorts her whole self under it, as she carries on smacking at him.

The fact that he can’t see any evidence of a tomato-red glow beneath the white and light grey stripes is truly a testament to the manufacturing quality.

Rio lifts his focus up to Mick instead. Pings a silent, broad-grinned greeting, the opposite of sheepish.

Mick is _terribly_ smug.

“All good?” he presses.

“Yup.”

“You did a shitty job with the bathroom door,” Rio informs him.

“What I look like, your handyman?”

Rio flings his arms, as he stands to start pulling for clothes.

Elizabeth shuffles her face up from the cover. “Mick! Hi!”

Rio tips his head to her, and she’s staring at him _scandalised_ , like Mick ain’t ever seen a bare ass before. If she hadn’t abandoned her pearls she’d be clutching ‘em to her, clearly.

“How are you?” she says brightly to Mick.

Rio rolls his eyes. Steps one leg through, then the other.

Before Mick can even respond, she tacks on, “Do you have my phone?” He can’t see, but she’s for sure making some immature grabby motion.

“Phones are in the car.”

Well, at least she doesn’t start audibly grumbling.

“Is my family okay?” That’s serious, small.

“Everyone’s cool,” Mick confirms. He makes sure to catch Rio’s eye for that, earning him a nod, before his head’s briefly blanked by t-shirt.

He wasn’t _worried_. Just. Just. Cool. Good.

“Got her towed?” he queries.

Receives a nod for that too. Thank _fuck_.

“Hey, you find _her_ car?” Rio asks.

Mick gives him a puzzled look. Says, “On her driveway.”

Elizabeth simpers, kinda awkward.

Hmm.

But, priorities. “So, who?”

“Wheeler,” Mick says, with a smirk.

Rio’s spun for a minute. Cos – yeah, he knows the name, course. But isn’t Wheeler, like, strictly white collar? Their paths have crossed a time or two, but there’s no bad blood between ‘em.

And then he clocks it. More from Micky’s smarmy face than anything else. _Shit_. That sparkling woman with the serious ring that night – and fuck, what _was_ her name… Well, whatever. Yeah. Yep. She coulda been Wheeler’s wife, couldn’t she. That whole crew was there and all. Ah, fuck. He really hadn’t given a shit about being subtle right then. Cos Mick had clearly fucking spied it, and damn – he hadn’t even noticed him noticing.

“Seriously,” he semi-snaps. “All this over some p–”

But Mick’s eyes have swivelled to Elizabeth, dragging Rio’s focus. He looks _appalled_.

And, shit, yes. She really is playing far too cherubic. Not storming at anyone, patiently waiting. Unlike her nosy, demanding lil self. Too eager, too pleasant. A continent’s worth of red flags. It turns Rio’s veins cold.

Fuck, she’s duplicitous as anything. And he’s been playing all cosy with her. A mistake to forget what lies beneath that soft shell. Honestly, she could have made a deal with Wheeler, somehow, couldn’t she. Couldn’t she? And, okay. Maybe that sounds a little far-fetched. But she’s up to _something_. Determinedly taking notes for some nefarious purpose, at least.

“Is that my shirt?” Mick chokes out, the embodiment of dismayed.

And – ah. Okay. Rio reassesses. Maybe the dramatic ass wasn’t seeing much else to be suspicious on, beyond Elizabeth swimming further from the bedding.

She flusters. And then she glares at _him_ unreasonably over-theatrical. Basically does everything in her power to throw Rio under the bus, makes it seem like he forced her to dress up in it at gunpoint, without recourse to the exact words.

“I’ll wash it and get it back to you?” she offers.

“Burn it. Just. Burn it,” Mick says, in tiny, maudlin whisper.

He gasps in an unpleasant sound. Adds, “You know what. Catch you guys outside.”

Dude practically stumbles off, suddenly ungainly, clearly fumbling for his vape.

Rio blinks, sort of amused, a second. Then focuses on getting his shit, and himself, together.

“Hey!” Elizabeth soon hisses.

“Mm.” And, yeah, okay. He is probably only half-listening, absorbed in a very important pocket-check. But, like, that’s still a full half of listening left over. So he doesn’t know why she gets so huffy about it.

Or, maybe he kinda does. Maybe he kinda likes how she has to have all his attention. Whatever.

“Rio!” she yells at him, stern.

That startles him into loosing his focus, it lassos for her. It’s just a shock, that’s all. Her– Well. Never mind. His name can't rank in the top ten most surprising things she's said to him in the past week. 'Sides, not as if he hasn't caught her whimpering it plenty.

She’s clearly freaking the fuck out. Eyes cast down at her hands, while those twine and fiddle with each other.

He dubiously steps for her.

Prepares himself for more blather on the subject of homicide, maybe she’s about to inform him she offed him, yet again. Or – and this is a throat-closing idea – interrogate him ‘bout what their recent shenanigans mean to the real world. Or. Shit. Perhaps she’s actually gonna try to lay down the law with some preposterous oral sex schedule.

Which is _not_ happening. He’s a busy man, got shit to do. And – what. How’s that supposed to work. Him sneaking in at night, with her husband asleep next to her and – hmm. Actually, that does sound pretty funny, yeah. Except Elizabeth’s fundamentally incapable of staying quiet, so it’s not like that’d last. And anyway – if that’s the game, he’s got better reveal ideas. Like maybe he’d lure her outside, fuck her on that corny picnic table, hand gagging her mouth. Send her back inside with a pat, come leaking from her. And, yeah, he’s aware she knows what a shower is, obviously. But do it right, she’ll just go pass out.

Maybe he could somehow dispatch Mick at the exact right moment in the morning, too. Get a picture of her idiot husband’s face, waking up to _that_. Ha.

But he’s had about enough of Elizabeth and Micky’s insubordinate asses. So instead–

“I don’t have any pants!” Elizabeth whines suddenly, pouting up at him. “Or underwear!”

It’s so unexpected, so fucking banal, that he laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs. A hand slaps leg, before raising to catch his nose – tipped toward ceiling as his head leans back.

He’s still going once she’s up. _Especially_ when she’s waddling weird, still scowling, her knees stiff together.

“It’s not funny!” she insists. Her eyes drift around, clearly searching for a projectile.

Rio looks at her. At – at them, really. All of it. The story stretching back. The incoming inevitabilities.

And like fuck it ain’t.

**Author's Note:**

> well this ended up longer than i expected! and my harddrive exploded in the middle of it. what a time!
> 
> humongous thanks to everyone for kudos and comments and encouragement and engagement with the first two parts of this series <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> this is for Meg, bc she likes yelling.
> 
> if you've come out of this shipping Mick/Rio and/or Mick/Beth instead/more, I salute you.


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